Incubus
by takingoffmyshoes
Summary: Napoleon has a weight on his chest (or, the one where Gaby Finds Out).


It starts like this:

Napoleon jerks awake in the dark hotel room, drags in a lungful of air (like a half-drowned man finally breaking the surface between paralyzing water and dizzying sharpness), and abruptly goes rigid.

Gaby gets there first, sees his eyes wild and unfocused in the dark, sees his teeth clenched and chest straining and no air going in (not after that one last breath, desperate, like he knew what was coming) and all his muscles locked in violent tremors that hold him still, and in a moment so horrifying her brain entirely shuts down, she wonders when he's going to start foaming.

But then Illya is crowding her out, pushing her aside more forcibly than gently (she lands on the floor behind him and isn't sure she's ready to stand up - only seconds ago she was asleep and now, what can she even call this) and blocking Napoleon from her, hiding him, but she can read his worry in the sharp lines of his back.

"Wake up, Solo," he is saying. "Cowboy, it's all right, you're not there, it's not happening, relax, you're safe, it's okay, shhh," and he slips into Russian and she still hasn't heard Napoleon breathe again.

She stands, slowly, and sees:

Illya, with his hands in Napoleon's hair, against his face, soothing, tracing every line, every plane, gentle;

Napoleon, straining against invisible bonds, gritting his teeth, shaking, unseeing, not breathing;

Illya, settling himself on top of Napoleon and rolling them together, putting Napoleon's back to her and pressing Napoleon's face into his chest, protecting;

Napoleon, _shaking_ , taut, and then—

Breathing. Gulp after gulp like he couldn't get it before (he couldn't) and might lose it again (he might, what is happening, _what_ );

Illya, arms around him, hand soothing down his back, murmuring, still, drifting from Russian into English and back again;

Napoleon, trembling now, not like he's being torn apart but almost like he's... crying, pain and fear and adrenaline crowding his throat and spilling out in the only way they know how.

Napoleon, whispering back to Illya's gentle prompting, ragged and harsh and ugly: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again, but he can't whisper and shake and breathe like that at the same time so it turns to coughing, wretched and painful and deep. Illya rolls them over again and stands, taking Napoleon with him. He half-carries him into the bathroom and she wonders why until the coughing turns to retching, which in time turns to silence and the sound of running water.

She hasn't moved when Illya comes out, and all she sees of Napoleon is a bare foot against the tile. He must be sitting up against the wall, waiting to be sick again, or wishing this had never happened, or both, or more.

Illya splits into and out of view with a glass of something that isn't water, which she doesn't see Napoleon take, but he must have, or else Illya just left it on the floor next to him, which somehow makes more sense.

The first thing she says out loud that day is:

"He shouldn't be drinking." She means because he's just been sick, and alcohol can't sit well after that, but it comes out confused rather than stern. Then again, so is she.

The first thing Illya says to her that day is:

"He will need to."

She can't get back to sleep after that, but she pretends. She pretends she doesn't hear Napoleon leave the bathroom, that she doesn't open her eyes just a crack and see him get back into bed, radiating such a tangle of despair and guilt and self-loathing and reluctance that she has to squeeze her eyes shut again against a surprising prick of tears. She pretends not to notice that Illya never came back to her bed, but rather stayed in Napoleon's, and waited for him. She pretends it doesn't hurt her heart the easy way that the two of them fit together, Napoleon's back to her and Illya's arms around him. Soothing. Safe.

They've done this before. It's routine, or at least practiced. Choreographed. And she was never supposed to find out.

If the sight of Napoleon frozen in terror and choking on nothing ever leaves her head, that thought is going to take its place in keeping her up at night.

* * *

The next morning, Illya gets up and Napoleon doesn't. Gaby gets up and Napoleon doesn't. The sun brightens through the hotel curtains and then fades as it moves away from its perfect angle. Illya reads two newspapers. Gaby reads a book. Napoleon doesn't get up.

"Is he all right?" she asks softly, a little after noon. Neither of them have even contemplated leaving the suite, not even for lunch. Gaby isn't hungry at all, and she doubts Illya is, either. They're on leave, anyway, until Waverly finds another stick for them to chase. No mission they have to keep themselves primed for.

"He is sick," is all Illya will say, and he won't meet her eyes.

"He was _very_ sick last night," she presses, because it's true, and because they're both worried. "Does he need a doctor?"

Illya's lips quirk, not quite a smile, there and gone in an instant. "Is not that kind of sickness."

Gaby tries again. "Is there anything I can—"

"No," short and firm, and she is shut down.

Eventually all the sitting around doing nothing makes her chilly, and she pads into the bedroom to get a jacket.

Napoleon's lying on his side in a mess of bedclothes, looking towards the empty second bed and the window beyond. His eyes are open, but they aren't tracking her: the heavy curtains have been pulled back, and light dances through the sheerer fabric beneath. That's a much better show, she thinks, and hopes it brings him some measure of comfort. He's horribly pale, but she can't tell if he still feels sick, like he can't breathe, or just ashamed.

She doesn't know what to say to him, when he's not Napoleon Solo—or, rather, the very first time that he is. She picks a jacket at random and flees with quiet, even steps.

Illya has responded to the forced (elected) inactivity by taking apart, cleaning, and reassembling his entire arsenal. His motions are methodical, on the careful side of efficient rather than the rushed, and maybe he too is wondering what he will say.

Then again, he's done this before.

"Is it always this bad?" is the fifth thing she says that day, back in her chair with her jacket and her book.

"No," is the fifth thing Illya says to her that day, but he doesn't say it like he did before, as an end. This time is softer, and Gaby presses the advantage.

"Is it because I was there?"

Illya takes great care in swabbing the inside of his smallest silencer, and it is several seconds before the quiet _yes_ drops into the room.

It's not easier to hear because she already knew the answer, but at the same time, she would have hated a lie.

"Why?"

"It is not your responsibility."

"'Responsibility' is a very deliberately different word than 'business'," she returns sharply, because this is her in, and even if Illya doesn't answer a single question more, he'll already have told her this much. "So why use it?"

"Because you shouldn't—" another gun, another careful disassembly, "blame—" and this bit's tricky for some reason, even though she's seen him do it a dozen times at least, "yourself."

"Oh? And why would I do that?"

Illya opens his mouth, and this time he's going to deflect, but a voice stops him.

"Peril."

She looks up at that; they both do. Napoleon's leaning in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown and his own tightly folded arms. He looks terrible, still, and it's almost definitely shame, but he looks like he shouldn't be up, and she would tell him so but he isn't looking at her.

He's not looking at her the way people don't run away from something, and he's looking at Illya the way people run towards something else, instead. So she holds back the words and watches. "You're a terrible spy," he says, exasperated and fond.

"Perhaps she is just a better one?" Illya suggests, and stands. "Drink?"

"Please."

Napoleon takes a seat on the couch across from her, folds his hands between his knees, and does a lot of not talking and even more not looking at her. Illya brings him a cup of tea, and one for her as well, then brings out one for himself. So there they sit, at three in the afternoon, having eaten nothing all day, drinking tea in complete silence.

"It is terribly ironic," Napoleon says suddenly, to no one in particular (although of course it's to her), "that electrocution has given me a tendency towards sleep paralysis," (that's the first half of the revelation) "during which I vividly hallucinate electrocution." And that's the second half, but he's not done yet.

"Most people, when they find themselves unable to move or speak, caught somewhere very unpleasant between waking and sleeping, hallucinate a demon or a hag sitting on their chest. For me, it's the restraints on Uncle Rudi's electric chair."

No, there are two revelations. This is the second half of the first, and the other - the explanation, not the reason - falls into utter insignificance beside it. Her fingers feel the urge to drop the cup, and she makes them set it down gently on a side table instead.

"Uncle Rudi," she says, and her voice is small and far away. "My Uncle Rudi," _who was as good as my own father, in some ways better, because he was there,_ "put you in an electric chair? Why?"

"For its own sake," Napoleon murmurs, and then, _then_ he meets her gaze, and smiles like it's really okay, like he wasn't tortured by her family.

"When?" she demands, because the timeline doesn't—

No.

"Oh my god," she says, and then again. "Oh my god, I told them about you and he made a telephone call and you—"

She rounds on Illya next, and her fingers want to drop his cup, as well. She's beginning to understand them both so much better, and the thought isn't a pleasant one. "You," she snaps, and jabs a finger, too, because why the hell shouldn't she? " _You_ got him out and you _both_ knew this had happened and _I'm_ only hearing about it three months later, _why_?"

"Because he's family," Napoleon says heavily. He looks sick again, and just as she thinks it he runs a hand through his hair and seems to physically pull himself together. "Sorry, I'm still a bit...unsettled." If he's trying to make it sound like a lie, a paltry excuse for not being perfect, he fails.

Illya agrees with her on this, at least. "You should go," he says, tipping his head toward the bedroom. "Try to get some sleep."

Napoleon looks like he wants to laugh at that but knows it'll be nothing short of hysterical. He gives his tiny little head-shake instead. It's a small improvement.

"I mean it. You never know when Waverly will yank on your leash," he continues, then catches Napoleon's argument before it's voiced. "At least get some rest, even if you don't sleep."

"You were tortured," Gaby reminds them, as it's still quite new to her and they've moved on a bit too quickly. "With electricity, and it, what? It went through your head? You could have died, you know." _It would have been very irresponsible of you to drop dead with no warning while attempting to rescue me_ isn't quite what she means, but it is something he will understand. If he does, however, he chooses not to show it.

Instead, he scoffs. "With Peril around to rescue me? Never." He believes it, too, even when he jokes.

She very carefully does not ask what happened to her uncle, but in the days and weeks to come she will wonder whether he deserved it.

She will eventually conclude that he did, but it will be difficult, because even a monster can be kind to certain people, and the guilt that goes along with being one of those people is probably what Napoleon meant to spare her from in the first place. But what's done is done, and now the three of them get to try to struggle along together.

It ends like this:

Napoleon stretches out on the couch, Illya manages to wedge himself in beside him, and Gaby, back at her book, pretends not to notice them fall asleep together in their hotel suite's sitting room.

* * *

(Really, it doesn't end there, because Napoleon still wakes up dying every now and then, but now she knows. Illya's still better at dealing with it but she isn't too bad, herself, and one day, far in the future, she'll look up and ask, "When was the last time you had an episode?" and Napoleon will lower his newspaper and honestly consider it. "I don't remember," he'll say, and then— _then_ it will have ended.)

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _1) *pushes up glasses*_ technically _it's only 'electrocution' if you die from it, but 'electric shock' doesn't have quite the same ring, so..._

 _2) I have edited this to make it slightly more accurate, but it is still not a medically precise description of sleep paralysis or the effects of sustained electrical shock on someone's sleeping patterns._ _If you're not familiar with sleep paralysis, feel free to peruse the "sleep paralysis" wikipedia page, and the "Scientific Explanation" section of the "incubus" wikipedia page to explain the title._

 _3) As always, if you see anything that needs to be corrected, I would welcome your feedback!_


End file.
